


tell the ones that need to know

by somethingradiates



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Unintentional Voyeurism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingradiates/pseuds/somethingradiates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>three people that heard or saw juice and chibs and one person that asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell the ones that need to know

**Author's Note:**

> please forgive my general shakiness with the timeline regarding section three; the belfast episodes are a blur of blue-grey and titus welliver's terrible belfast accent to me.

001\. Gemma Teller-Morrow

Gemma doesn't usually come to these parties. It's not really her scene – she's forty-five, this shit hasn't been her scene in about three decades, but it's her son's birthday and she's obligated to make an appearance. 

The big dinner is tomorrow night and she's sure it's going to be as raucous as this; she's had the prospect moving everything breakable out of the big dining room for most of the day. He's doubtlessly off getting hammered, given the amount of booze flowing; Jax had slurred something about needing to drink for Opie, and even his impressive consumption hasn't put a dent in just how much is stacked behind the bar. Bobby Elvis is playing barkeep for the moment, nipping off a bottle of what looks like Patron during the rare lulls; there's a steady, constant stream of people moving from the clubhouse to the parking lot and she's managed to keep her eye on most of them all night – den mother to her special breed of Boy Scout – but there are a couple that she hasn't seen for almost an hour.

Chibs is off somewhere, probably with one of the girls – Luann's supplied them with a truly astonishing amount of pussy for the evening and Gemma is determinedly not thinking very hard about that; Jax knows not to bring one home for dinner, she tells herself, and that's what matters – but Juice, that one's been gone for a while and she would eat her left thumb if he's off with someone. Nobody here is his type but her, she's pretty sure; he likes them a good ten years older than him, if not more, and while he has the good sense not to hit on her...

Well. Gemma, personally, doesn't quite believe that the kid would hit on her anyway. Clay, maybe. Jax, definitely – she'd caught the way he tagged along after Jax like a goddamn lovestruck puppydog the first couple of months of his prospect term, even if it didn't seem like anyone else had. But that's just her own speculation. 

It makes her curious, though, and when Gemma Teller wants to know something – by God, she’ll find out. 

Plus, he’s just a prospect, even if he is close to being done with his term; he showed up at a good time with Opie being inside and Clay’s already talking about how it’ll be good to have an extra set of reliable hands – but even then it isn’t like that’s ever actually stopped Gemma from nosing around. She gets a hold on Tig as she makes her way through the crowd and leans up to ask him if he’s seen the prospect anywhere; Tig, clearly assuming that she needs something cleaned, grins and shows his teeth.

“Went down the hall with Chibs,” he says, sounding more sober than Gemma imagines he intends. “Followed ‘im down, don’t know what’s goin’ on.” 

“Keep drinkin’, sweetheart,” she says, patting his cheek. “Thanks.” 

“Uh-huh,” Tig says, and does as he’s told. Gemma’s off down the hallway already, eyes narrowed a little; Juice musta pissed Chibs off something spectacular if he’s dragged him into one of the back rooms to bitch him out and Gemma personally feels like whatever the hell he did is completely relevant to her interests. The first two doors she tries are unlocked and the rooms are empty; the third is locked but when she puts her ear up to the door all she can hear is snoring – then she’s rounding the corner and the first door on her left is unlocked and – 

And Chibs is leaning against the wall barely three feet away. One hand is holding a joint and the other is curled around the back of Juice’s head and Juice has his mouth wrapped around Chibs’ dick and “oh my God,” Gemma says, “lock the goddamn door, you animals,” and slams the door shut again, back against the wood, eyes wide. 

“I need a drink,” she says, and doesn’t hear Chibs laugh from the other side of the door. 

 

002\. David Hale

David Hale doesn’t feel right about this.

He doesn’t like the idea of bugging houses in the first place – the clubhouse or the TM garage, sure. Houses feel like he’s crossing a line, even if it’s not really _him_ doing it. But June had put him on it and he’s going to do this right, he’s determined – it’s already done, isn’t it? If it’s already done that means he might as well just... listen.

The first up is Telford’s apartment down on Mulholland, and frankly Hale thinks this is the only one that's going to be worth anything. They couldn't get Munson – he's got a goddamn dog and even June's other agent wouldn't go near the front door listening to it bark, so they managed to get Telford, Ortiz and Epps. They couldn't get either of the Tellers, but June said that was probably too much risk in the first place – even she wasn't interested in accidentally running into Gemma. 

He plugs the bug into a USB port, as June showed him a few days before, and plugs in his headphones, turns up the volume: at first, nothing. 

It doesn't change. The hours tick past on the media player; the first entire day there's absolutely nothing other than a landline phone ringing five times. The second day, there's a door opening, then shutting, then, less than five minutes later, opening and shutting again. Three days later, there's still nothing, and Chibs Telford, Hale thinks, sitting back in his chair, apparently just... doesn't go home.

Which isn't that uncommon, he supposes. There are always bikes at the garage, and he knows there are rooms in the back – Unser mentiond it offhand once when Hale had asked if there was any chance they could bust some of the MC after a particularly raucous party. Unser had looked at him like an idiot, then deigned to explain that none of them drove drunk, it was against the rules – because apparently these people had _rules_. 

He gives it another three days – the whole thing takes up about fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes of dead air – before he tugs the Telford bug out of the port. 

_Telford - nothing,_ he writes. _Apparently isn't home much. Might be worth trying again._

Ortiz, he thinks, is next. This is going to be completely fucking pointless; Ortiz is as much of a prospect as Epps, from what he's seen – that shit the MC pulled by dumping him in the flowers on the square had more or less convinced him – and if he knows anything about anything Hale will eat his goddamn hat. 

But June's a fed, and what a fed says goes. 

He's only got to wait a few seconds to get something out of Ortiz's bug, and he immediately slows it down to real time: the door is opening and he's talking, maybe on a phone – 

"Come on, don't make fun of me, I can't cook, you know that," he's saying, and Hale sighs. 

"Yeah, well," another voice says, and the deputy's eyes snap open. "You're about to learn." 

That's Telford, he thinks. Telford, at Ortiz's apartment. Hot damn, maybe this – maybe this is actually going to work, maybe they're actually going to get something – 

He forces himself to be still and listen. He can hear the tap running, the faint clank of dishes – they have a bug between the kitchen and the bedroom and one in the living room, both powerful enough to catch anything from either room. 

"Hey," Ortiz says, more softly, and the tap turns off. " _Hey_ , I thought you were cooking." 

Telford makes an _mm_ noise and Hale is suddenly a little uncomfortable with just how well these bugs pick up sound. "Dinner can wait," he says. "Haven't got my hands on you all day." 

Oh, Hale thinks, and pauses the media player so violently he thinks for a moment that he's broken his mouse. 

Alright, he thinks, alright, maybe it's not – no, honestly, there's no mistaking that, _haven't got my hands on you all day_ , that isn't – that's not brotherly, that's – 

"Oh, wow," he says.

He just waits for a few seconds, then sighs and presses play again; his job is to listen to all of these, they've got a solid nine days on all of them and the fact that Ortiz is home at all means he's got to give this a run-through.

There's some bickering, but it's soft and normal and – as strange as it makes Hale feel, it reminds him a lot of his parents. Bickering and comfortable talking and yeah, he thinks, this isn't... this isn't a brotherly thing. It's hard for him to believe these are the same guys he sees on the street every day – he can't imagine Ortiz, that little goddamn hood, talking to someone like this, but there's no mistaking either of those accents. 

It's fine for a while; he feels like a voyeur, and he's grateful for the silence that falls after about an hour – and then, of course, that's when it starts. 

"Fuck," Ortiz is saying, and it's more in his left earbud than his rights, so – great, Hale thinks, great, he knows where the bug is picking this up from. " _Fuck_ , Chibs," and that melts into a long, soft moan, and Hale just mutes the entire thing, slipping his headphones off.

He's got to rationalize this. Telford's living with Ortiz, clearly – but his initial thought that he's not going to get anything out of the Ortiz bug is still with him, he knows the kid doesn't know anything, as much or less than the prospect, and he doubts, honestly, that Telford knows much. They need the Tellers and Trager, not the little fish.

And if he turns this in to June... it would be like serving up Telford and Ortiz on a silver platter. God only knows what kind of shit she could pull with this as leverage. 

Hale doesn't like them. He doesn't. But he wants to see them go down for the right reasons.

_Ortiz – Corrupted file_ , he writes. _No use. Tried getting through the whole thing multiple times. Threw it out._

Hale tugs the bug out of the port and drops it in the half-full glass of water on his desk, then fishes it out and overhand tosses it into the trashcan next to his door. 

 

003\. Maureen Ashby

Despite her less-than-warm reception towards Gemma, Maureen actually likes the Redwood boys quite a lot. More than she thought she would, anyway; they’ve barely been here a night but they seem well-mannered enough, keeping quiet and clean in the guest house, as Clay calls it – a _guest house_ , like she’s some rich little bint out in the country – and she’s shocking comfortable letting Trinny around them, too.

Her girl’s off helping with breakfast in the kitchen and after she opens up the shop and tells Rita to man the till for a bit she goes over herself, leans against the wall and smokes a cigarette while she watches; Trinity is a good cook, which she surely didn’t get from her old mother and didn’t learn from her father, and she’s got pancakes on the stovetop and coffee brewing. 

“Might need more batter than that,” she says after a few moments. “Cookin’ for seven grown men.” Like he’s been summoned, one of them comes half-staggering up the stairs from the ground floor, dragging a hand over his eyes and pausing at the top of the stairs like he’s only just noticed that there are people up here.

“Well,” Maureen says, looking him over, “mostly grown,” and Trinity laughs, digs her own cigarettes out of her jumper pocket even though she knows Maureen hates it. The boy – she’s hesitant calling him a boy, knowing what kind of boy Jimmy’s got himself recruiting, but this one can’t be much older than Trinity – straightens up, grinning a little bit. 

“Can, uh,” he says, and clears his throat, one hand at the back of his neck. He looks even younger than he is without his cut. “Can I help with anything?” 

Trinity glances at Maureen and clearly fights back a giggle. “No, dear, we’re alright,” Maureen says. “Nearly done. Sit down, Trinny can bring you out a plate.” 

“You aren’t maids,” he says, ducking around Trinity to get himself a mug of coffee. He’s got to rifle through the cupboard before he can find the sugar and he dumps more sugar than Maureen uses in a week in the bottom of his mug before he pours the coffee at all. 

“I like this one,” Trinity says, and Maureen just smiles. 

She keeps an eye on that one as the day progresses; he’s mostly quiet but he’s quick to smile, and he’s the first to volunteer for the evening guard duty as everyone starts to head to bed. He and Chibs have the rooms on the ground floor, ostensibly because they got the last of the pick. Juice, that’s his name – and what kind of a name is that, Maureen would like to know – he smiles at her as she slips inside the guest house to set out two new cans of coffee; these American boys can’t appreciate a cup of tea, they have to have their strong bitter coffee, but if she’s putting them up she may as well make sure they’re comfortable. 

She finds other things to do in the quiet second floor, tidying up the living room, quiet as a ghost; she can hear someone snoring from upstairs. That big one, likely; she thinks she may as well take the boy out a cuppa on her way out, and after a few minutes she’s padding down the hallway with a big mug of strong hot tea; he’s supposed to be sitting on the top of the stairs outside and as she approaches she sees that he is, but he’s not alone. 

For just a moment, she’s not sure who it is that’s out there with him – there aren’t that many choices, truth told, and it takes her about five seconds to narrow it down. They’re close and the boy’s head is on Chibs’ shoulder and Chibs has got an arm around his waist, naught brotherly about it, and Maureen wonders, just for a moment, if Fiona knows. 

No, not her business, she thinks decisively, and it’s not Fiona’s either, and she retreats back down the hallway, sipping slow from the mug. She’s smiling, just a little. 

 

001\. Opie Winston

Juice has been inside for seven days – Juice and the boys, sometimes Chibs feels like shit for only really worrying about one of them – and Chibs hasn't slept worth a good goddamn for eight.

"So," Opie says, takes a seat next to him on the picnic table, elbows braced on his knees. "Got somethin’ on your mind?" 

Chibs glances at him sidelong. "What’re you talkin’ about," he says around his cigarette. Ope's a good lad, forthright as his father, and it doesn't take him long to speak.

"You and Juice," he says, and Chibs chokes on his inhale.

"'scuse me," he says, and it's Opie glancing at him now, eyebrows raised and a smile quirking at one corner of his mouth. 

"It's good, brother," he says. "It ain't my business, tell me to fuck off if you wanna. I'm just curious." 

Chibs weighs his options for a quiet moment. If he denies it – Opie already knows, obviously, so what's the fucking point? 

"How d'you know," he mutters after a moment, and Opie wisely doesn't ask him to repeat himself.

"Thought about it before," he says simply, shrugging one massive shoulder. "Seen the way you look at him, brother. Never seen you look at somebody like that. You didn't look at Fiona like that back in Belfast." 

"Aye, well. A decade'll do that." 

"That ain't what I meant," Opie says patiently. 

"I know," Chibs says, a little mulishly. "Jesus fuck, if you know, who else figured it out?" 

"Nobody," Opie says. "Far as I know. Nobody's gonna say anything, brother. Nobody would wanna admit it."

Chibs makes a dissatisfied little _mm_ noise, taking a long pull off his cigarette. "So s'just the way I look at him? Pupils turn into hearts, huh?" 

"Don't be an asshole," Opie says, but there's no edge to his voice. "You've looked like shit all this week. You ain't been sleepin' since they left." There's a pause, then he adds, more quietly, "He's gonna be fine."

"He's never been inside," Chibs says, eyes on the pavement. He hates how worried he sounds, hates that Opie knows, hates that he's that readable. "He doesn't know what the fuck he's doin'." 

"Neither did you when you went in the first time," Opie says. "Neither did I, or Jax, or anybody else. We all made it out fine. It's gonna change him, but it's something he's gotta do. You know that." 

"Aye," Chibs mumbles. Opie claps a big hand down on his shoulder. 

"He's gonna be fine," he repeats, and stands up. "I got a question, though." 

"Yeah?" Chibs is dreading it, a little, right off the bat, sure it's going to be something stupid, praying it's not a sex question because God help him, he doesn't want to talk about that with Opie Winston. 

"How long?" Ope is quiet for a moment, then says, "I mean – when did it start?" 

"While ago," Chibs says, stands up, too, flicks his mostly-smoked cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his toe. "Few years. Well ‘fore you got out." 

Opie's eyebrows raise. "Jesus," he says. "Nobody figured it out yet?" 

Chibs raises a hand to the back of his neck, grinning a little bit, and says, "Yeah... almost nobody, anyway."


End file.
